


She.

by wily_one24



Category: Veronica Mars - Fandom
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Rape/Non-con References, Squick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-17
Updated: 2006-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tastes like copper on your tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She.

**Author's Note:**

> **Rating:** PG-13.  
>  **Spoilers:** Everything. Filler scene from  3.07 ‘Of Vice and Men’. Be warned, this has spoilers.  
>  **Warnings:** Um, spoilers. And ickiness, but if you watched the episode, you’re golden.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Yeah, not mine. I don’t own squat.

*~*~*~*  
 **SHE**  
*~*~*~*

She tastes like copper on your tongue.

She’s not like the others. She’s too high profile, too well known, too surrounded. People know who she is, everyone from the janitor to the dean, from the sleazy lawyers to the Sheriff. She has an even higher profile boyfriend and people would notice her being helped home from a party by anyone not him. People she’s never even met know her name.

That makes her off limits.

Necessity, more so than choice, makes them all a little quiet, a little bit lonely, a little bit desperate, the sort of girl people don’t blink at when they disappear from a crowded place.

She’s observant, she takes note of everything around her, and she remembers it. She’s like a bright neon sign that says ‘don’t look at me’. You can’t help it. It doesn’t take a genius, straight-A teacher’s pet to type her name into google and watch the screen light up like a Christmas tree. Too many famous cases, too many sordid names, and her right in the middle of it.

It’s only a matter of time before she finally sees you; you know it.

She’s already getting close, which makes her even further off limits, but that’s nothing more than a dinner bell to you. So you wait and you watch her.

You’re patient, you have to be. And your eyes travel across the courtyard, following her and some friend, watching the way her hips slide under her clothes. You watch the curve of her mouth as she smiles. You let yourself drift, sometimes, thinking about her limp and pliant and helpless, at your mercy, and it makes your mouth dry.

She’s off limits and you bite your tongue.

You tease yourself, letting it build up like steam in a kettle. You know you’re ready to blow. You watch her walk into a room flanked by friends and imagine slipping something, anything, into her food, her drink, imagine your handiwork slipping past those lips. Your eyes look her up and down and you just know she’d feel weightless in your arms, even sodden and weighed down by drugs.

But she’s too careful and she’s never alone and you bite your tongue.

In the cafeteria, one day when you can feel it itching underneath your skin, scratching at your very nerve endings, you brush by her, knock into her shoulder and her eyes settle on you for a brief second as she mumbles an apology.

\-- _I touched you_ \-- You think it as you sit at a table far from her, watching underneath your lids -- _I touched you and you didn’t know_ \--.

You have to sit at the table for half an hour before your breathing returns to normal.

The teeth at the very back of your jaw leak salty saliva whenever you spot her and you bite your tongue.

You wonder what she thinks about you. About the idea of you. You’ve seen her talk to all the girls, but she’s only getting the aftermath, the one sided version, and you just know she has to see more than that. You want to know if she lies awake at night, thinking of you, of the whys and hows and when nexts.

You want to talk to her about her theories on you. You wonder if she has a big flowery theory on why you shave their hair, some trumped up idea of an overbearing mother and a lacking father figure. But in all honesty, you think she’s too straight forward for that.

She’s probably already worked you out, probably knows why, and you think maybe she appreciates the simplicity of it. It’s not about the hair, that’s incidental, it’s about taking part of them and leaving part of you.

They wake up and they can’t hide, not under their ugly wigs and gaudy scarves and hats. Everyone knows. Everyone looks at them and thinks -- _You were his_. Every artist wants acknowledgement and you writhe in pleasure at yours.

You know she knows. She teases you with it. She curls her hair and flaunts it right in front of you. She waves it in your face like a big red flag, like the bright plumage of a peacock. It’s your very own calling card and she’s begging you.

But she’s off limits and you bite your tongue.

You follow her to the beach and watch her play with a dog. Her keds slide deep into the sand and you step in the hollows left behind. You imagine carrying her to her bed, lying her down and arranging her limbs. She’s beautiful and you just know she’ll be irresistible when she’s limp. You wonder if she’ll fall completely, or if she’ll be half coherent, slurring as she blinks around confused.

You pray she’s a moaner and the thought has you clamping your teeth down sharply.

She takes the decision from you.

In the end, it’s all too easy as she walks to the counter to complain about her food. She’s supposed to smart and highly intelligent and above average and you can’t help but smile as no one even blinks as you pass by her untended drink.

Her throat undulates as she swallows, big deep droughts of the fluid, and it feels like she’s sucking the air out of your lungs as she does so. You almost whimper when she puts the cup down. Your fingers clutch the edges of the table, white knuckle hard, and your toes bounce on the floor.

This is part of the game, part of the fun.

You watch her; you love to watch them all as they first slide down. Confusion and thickness slipping over their faces. Your brain ticks over the seconds, agonizingly slow, as the expectation oozes out of your pores. She shakes her head, a mane of golden curls shimmering around her face, and your tongue licks at your teeth, almost tasting the pasta she’s eating.

You’ll get the reality soon enough.

The anticipation drives you crazy, but that’s what you like. Watching them stumble, watching them clasp a friend’s arm and murmur. It’s a risk, but the rush is worth it when they get laughed at, their ‘drunkenness’ a point of humor.

This isn’t like that and it’s ten times as risky. You can practically hear the pulses of everyone echo in your ears, their voices loud and booming and a reminder of how many witnesses there are. You tell yourself, as you slide your tongue between your teeth and clamp down, that this is enough. This is all you need. Just to scare her, to let her know you know who she is.

She’ll ask for help and you’ll walk away.

Your heart thunders and your blood speeds up as you watch her walk towards the car park. The dark, lonely, abandoned car park. With no witnesses. You watch her stumble and it’s not confusion or surprise that registers on her face, it’s resignation and the slightest hint of panic.

This isn’t how you do it.

You wait, that’s what you do. You wait until they can barely stand, until they’re so far gone they can’t even say their own names out loud, let alone remember yours. But she’s there and she’s slumping and she’s weak and you know she can’t see much more than blurry shadows.

You’re a kettle of steam and everything inside you tells you to hold back, but the pressure keeps building until it’s weeping out of your eye sockets.

So you step forward and she looks at you, really looks at you, and you feel the ice cold relief of purpose hit you. Your breathing evens out and your heart returns to normal. Your eyes feel preternaturally calm as they follow her stumbles to the car.

She opens the door and in that second you think maybe she’ll get away, but then she falls and you’re watching so hard you can see her struggling not to, you can see her fighting it. And you think it’s better this way, it’s so much better when they know what’s about to happen and can’t stop it.

Her last stand is a feeble reach forward, to where she’s dropped her keys, and the sudden blaring of her car alarm does little more than make you sigh as you take the keys from her hand.

You can feel the heat of her skin when you slide a hand down the side of her cheek and what you really want to do is take the latex off and really touch her, really make your mark. You’re a kettle of pressurized steam and you’re ready to blow, but even you aren’t that foolish.

You have the feeling she’ll strip the flesh off her own bones to put it in evidence if your prints were on it anywhere.

When you comb your fingers through her hair, those curls she’s been parading in front of you, that you’ve been salivating over for weeks, you feel it in your pulse. The silky slide of it through the webbing of your fingers makes you hiss oxygen through your lips.

Then you hear it.

Low and slurred and helpless. She whimpers. And you freeze, trying to memorize that sound.

You lean down and breathe on her cheek, close to her ear, and you’re so close you could whisper to her. It sits on the edge of your tongue, your name, the gloat, the words that will work her panic into a frenzy. But you suck them back in, if she knows what’s happening, then she might just be able to remember your voice, even if she can’t see past the mask.

You don’t have your trusty razor down here, this isn’t planned and there are no convenient sockets nearby anyway, but you have a blade. Sharp and honed so close it leaves smooth bald skin in your wake, curls and curls of gold around your fingers.

Her name shouted in panic makes you jerk and the ends of hair come away with bloody scalp still attached.

Her boyfriend, her high profile, loving boyfriend is here as always and you remind yourself why she was off limits in the first place. It’s too close, too crowded, and she’s going to find you out one day, probably sooner rather than later.

But that is not today. You slide off into the shadows and try not to think of what you almost had. This is more, much more, than you wanted. All you needed was to scare her, to push her away. The message is clear, you can get close to her and she can’t stop you. You didn’t mean to get so close.

And as you give her over to him, you smile to yourself, because you know he’s going to pick her up and take her home, probably get her checked over by a doctor. She’ll be drawn deep into the belly of her friends and family and they’ll hover so closely over her that nobody will think to look.

You wonder when she’ll finally open her trunk, a day, one week, three weeks, and find the rest of the hair you left in there.

You walk away, not thinking of the husky whimper she gave to you, the feel of her skin under your hands, the absolute knowledge that she could have been yours but for a few seconds.

She’s off limits and you bite down harder than you ever remember doing it before.

She tastes like copper on your tongue.

***  



End file.
